The Adventure of the Quiet Man
by a1tam0nt
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are approached by Athelney Jones regarding a number of murders that have been occurring in a small country village. When a fourth victim is killed, Holmes and Watson investigate. However, all is not as it seems...
1. Chapter 1

It was a quiet spring night at Baker Street, and the sun was still trying to set over the horizon of London streets.

Readers who are familiar with my work will know that, every so often, Inspector Lestrade pays a visit to Mr. Sherlock Holmes so that he may hear the latest of cases which have been tackled at Scotland Yard - and also to provide some form of input into working toward a rapid conclusion into what often proved, for Sherlock Holmes in the very least, to have rather elementary conclusions. However, that night was a much different story.

Holmes was busy at his chemical corner, carefully and meticulously analysing a medieval script, as I sat at my own desk examining the records relating to the affair of the Russian revolutionary, a story which I am not yet allowed to divulge. It was not long before eight o'clock that I heard an official-sounding "rat-ta-tat-tat" knock on the door. I could hear the voice of Mrs. Hudson and our late and unexpected guest talking to each-other, before they went up the stairs.

"Inspector Jones, good evening." Said Holmes, not even looking up from his work.

I looked around to greet Inspector Athelney Jones. The Scotland Yard inspector with whom we cooperated with on the investigation of the incident involving _The Sign of the Four_ , which also led to me meeting my wife.

"Evening, Mr. Holmes." Said Inspector Jones. He went to take a seat before he suddenly paused in realisation "Wait a minute; Mr. Holmes, how did you know it was me?"

It was only at that point that Sherlock Holmes did turn around in his chair and pause his work.

"By your footsteps, Inspector. Your footsteps are a touch heavier than Gregson's but lighter than Hopkins's."

Jones seemed to think about it for a second, still not quite used to my companion's rapid process of thought. He then seemed to understand what Holmes was saying.

"Oh. I see. I'll take a seat then, shall I?" He said.

"I trust you have come with no official case then?" Asked Sherlock Holmes, as we rose from our seats and took our usual chairs in-front of the fireplace, which spat out a hot coal that ricochet with a 'ping' off of the fireguard.

Jones gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "No, I don't have any cases for you Mr. Holmes. I simply wanted to see how the doctor was doing since the case, and that everything was okay."

"Everything is alright, Inspector Jones." I replied. "My wife and I are enjoying married life just fine. Indeed, I do not get as much time to accompany Mr. Holmes as I would wish to, due to the busy nature of my practise, but I am still very much enjoying it."

"Come now, Inspector!" Remarked Sherlock Holmes, as though to quickly change the subject at hand. "How have you been since the little escapade? Has anything exciting happened of late down at the Yard? Of course, I would usually entrust such reports to Lestrade, however he often forgets little details that others might pick up on."

"There is, perhaps, not much I could tell you that you wouldn't know, Mr. Holmes. For I'm as under-informed as the best of them." Jones chuckled lightly. "But I do have one case that might interest you though."

"Do pray tell." Said Sherlock Holmes with a small smirk in the corner of his mouth, tenting his fingers with his usual languid expression upon his face.

"I was called out to Barchester, it's a little village up north a bit, upon request of the local constabulary. Apparently, there's been quite a few incidents going on that warranted proper investigation from Scotland Yard."

"And by incidents you mean what? Has someone's cat went missing? Someone putting butter on the milk bottles? Property disputes between farmers?"

"To put it simply, murders, Mr. Holmes. Serial murders!"

Holmes suddenly sat forward in his seat with a sudden burst of excitement. "Serial murders? How exci- interesting. Pray, do continue, Inspector. I was... just getting comfortable."

Holmes shifted around in his seat, before resuming his normal position.

"Anyway, they claim that they are serial murders! And because it's such a small village, you know what village people can be like for worrying about things, Mr. Holmes, someone could accidentally brush past them on the street, and they'd claim that they came within inches of death. Still, I looked into it, and I think that they may be right.

"Every victim thus far, the three of them, have died from the same injuries. Throats cut, just like that, right across the middle of the neck." Inspector Jones even going as far as to demonstrate exactly with his hand where the victims had been apparently cut.

"And who are the victims?" Asked Sherlock Holmes.

"Ordinary village people. The first was a young lady, 'loveliest thing there was in the village', apparently. Next was the local greengrocer. Followed then by the cab driver who works often with the local village blacksmith, who happened to find him just yesterday morning. They were all killed in the middle of the night, apparently. Probably because there's nobody around then. I mean really, Mr. Holmes, I think the half of them must have never drew blood before with the way some of them reacted to it. Some are already talking about moving away."

"I see... would you care for assistance in the matter?" Asked Holmes.

"Certainly not!" Said Inspector Athelney Jones, giving another dismissive wave of his hand, and sounding rather insulted in the same way. "It shouldn't take much effort to track down whoever is doing the murders. I'm not in Scotland Yard for nothing, after all. But, well, if you really want to help out, you're welcome to join the investigation in your unofficial capacity. Just as long as, you know, don't interfere too much or anything."

"I certainly shan't, Inspector. Not without your express permission. Shall we meet at seven o'clock tomorrow morning? Or is that too early for you, doctor?"

"No, it should certainly suit me." I replied.

"Excellent. Well then, I should probably get going. Some of us have work to do, unlike others. I'll say goodnight to you, Mr. Holmes. And I shall see you in the morning."

"Indeed. Good night, Inspector. Have a safe journey." Said Holmes, waving him out the door.

"Now, Watson," he added "We should probably get to bed early. After all, we do have a busy day tomorrow, I should imagine."


	2. Chapter 2

We both awoke early the following morning, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I were there ahead of time at Paddington Station. There before us, and much to our surprise, was Inspector Athelney Jones himself, with a small travel case beside him. He was twisting a small red and white-spotted handkerchief backward and forward in his hands in a terribly shaken manner.

"Good morning Inspector. You appear to be somewhat distressed, this morning." Observed Sherlock Holmes. "I know from your actions and the telegram in your pocket that there has been a development in this little countryside mystery before we have even had the chance to properly investigate."

"Mm?" grunted Jones, only just noticing us. "Oh, yes! There has been, Mr. Holmes," he said as he dabbed his brow with his handkerchief "I am, indeed, sorry to say that there has been another one."

"Another?" I queried.

Athelney Jones reached into his jacket pocket, produced the telegram that Holmes's keen eyes had spotted. He handed it to Holmes, who read it aloud. I have made the effort of reproducing said telegram here;

 **POST OFFICE TELEGRAM**  
 _Inspector A Jones, 45 Cock Lane_

 _Another incident has occurred overnite.  
_ _Linked to same killer possibly._ _Come ASAP._  
 _\- Const. Stevenson_

"Hum!" Hummed Sherlock Holmes. "Well, I dare say that a fresh case may be likely to help us form much better conclusions."

"That's just what I was thinking!" Cried Athelney Jones.

"I sincerely hope, Inspector, that they have not touched anything."

"Of course! Stupid me. I completely forgot to tell them..." Said Jones, hitting his hand against his forehead as the train arrived.

The train journey to Barchester was as quiet as could be expected. Sherlock Holmes himself thought to bring along a pamphlet on geographical locations in America, and was studying it with interest throughout our journey. Athelney Jones on the other hand spent the time quietly humming to himself. I instead spent my time watching the scenery move quickly past the window of our carriage as it turned from brick city buildings to green trees and foliage.

* * *

The village of Barchester itself was a quiet one, with many of its buildings made out of traditional red brick. A number of people lived around the main village's cobbled square and green inside small houses and cottages. There was also a small pond in the centre of the village green, where a number of school children were stood feeding small pieces of bread to the ducks and birds which commonly frequented it.

"Inspector Jones! It is excellent to see you, sir!" Cried a voice as we stepped off of the train.

We turned around to come face-to-face with a hearty-looking and moustached police constable, who was stood next to a bicycle.

"Inspector Stevenson. I received your telegram early this morning. This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his colleague Dr. Watson. Gentlemen, this is Constable Edgar Stevenson, the lead constable in this area."

"It is a pleasure to meet you both. I've read many of your stories in The Strand, doctor. I'm usually the first person in the whole village to get it because I simply do enjoy reading them."

"Why, thank you." I replied, as we shook hands.

"And Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I'm such a big fan. Thank you for coming along. I trust it must be difficult if Athelney here is getting you to help out."

"The pleasure is all mine, constable." Replied Sherlock Holmes. "I do hope that we will be able to bring about a proper conclusion to this intriguing mystery."

"So do I. Honestly, people have been going mad over it. Mad, I tell you! We're not used to such big incidents happening here in the village. I mean, honestly, the most exciting case I had in the year previous was having to rescue Mrs. Norris's cat after he climbed too far up the tree in her backyard again."

"Well my most exciting case in the previous year was aiding in the apprehension of the Acton arsonist. Which, I'm afraid, dwarfs your cat-rescuing effort quite considerably, constable." Bragged Inspector Jones.

"Before we get too far off track, I think we should begin our investigation." Holmes interrupted.

"Oh. Of course. I nearly went off track there." Said Stevenson. "Terribly sorry about that Mr. Holmes. Anyway, I've been reading up the 'setting up a crime scene cordon' section of the police handbook quite a lot recently, so I requested that my other counterpart, Constable Randall, secure the scene, and I told him to make sure that he doesn't touch anything. So hopefully, it should be good enough to investigate.

"The town doctor is also there, Doctor Martin. He's been run ragged having to examine the victims. I could also arrange it that you could talk to some of the victims' families or friends if you need it."

"Thank you constable. If we need anything, we shall know but to only ask. First of all, I think that we should examine the latest incident while the evidence is still relatively fresh."

"Certainly. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, Inspector, if you would kindly follow me then I'll lead you there." Said Constable Stevenson, picking up his bike and wheeling it alongside himself as he walked. "Don't worry about walking, everything here's within walking distance. So I hope you're up for trudging about the place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note:** Readers are advised that this chapter contains somewhat in-depth descriptions of wounds and cuts. Reader discretion is advised.

* * *

It was not long before we arrived at the location where the victim still lay. There was nobody around except for myself, the constable, the inspector, Sherlock Holmes and two other men, whom I presumed to be the local doctor and the other constable. The victim himself was a slightly plump and middle aged man with balding brown hair and a moustache. He lay lifeless in-front of us in a dark red pool of blood that had settled amongst the cobbled stones of the side street. A large and dark red gash was across his neck, and dark brown blood sat dried next to the large, deep and fatal wound across his neck.

"Hello again, constable." Said a sour-faced and middle-aged man in a dark grey suit, setting down his own black medical bag. "Inspector Jones, it's good to see you again."

"Ah, inspector! How's it going?" Asked a young and gangly man in a constable's uniform. "And you... you must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes, aren't ya?"

"Indeed, Inspector Jones thought to bring Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson with him from London to help investigate the case further."

"Actually, constable, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson will be conducting their own investigation, separate from my own." Athelney Jones interrupted. "I'll, of course, advise them any further should they need it."

"I see." Said the constable with an understanding nod.

"I'm Doctor Martin." Said the man in the grey suit, shaking my hand and then my companion's in a cold manner.

"I recognise you." I said "I believe you studied at Bart's during my own time."

"Indeed. I was previously a surgeon, but a rather recent injury has led to me needing to retrain to become a countryside practitioner." He sniffed.

"And I'm Constable Jeremy Randall. At your service, SIR!" The other constable gave a salute to Sherlock Holmes, who gave a sheepish salute in response. "If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask."

"Thank you constable, and you too, of course, doctor." Said Sherlock Holmes. "Would it be possible to tell me more about the victim? And the other recent murders, perhaps?"

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Well, we've been run ragged over these murders for the last week or so, isn't it? Yeah, we're not used to it like Athelney here is, so it did come as a bit of a shock to the system, if you know what I mean. The first victim, well, was Delia Hawthorne, the daughter of a local writer, Nathan Hawthorne. She was the prettiest thing in all of the village, but she was found dead in her bed with her throat cut. She was a kind sort, and never had a cross word with anyone, nor did anybody else have anything bad to say about her either.

"Then it was the local greengrocer, Mr. Hugo Gregory. He was found outside the shop with his throat cut and all as well! He also doubled up as the local postmaster, so his wife, Vivian, had to take over. It was actually she who dispatched the telegraph message to you this morning, Inspector.

"And the incident after that one and before this one was Giuseppe Bruno, an Italian immigrant, but a hardworking one nevertheless. Found with his throat slit, still sitting in the cart, and the horse was shot. He was the local cab driver, and frequently delivered stuff around the place with his horse and cart. He also worked a lot with the local blacksmith, so it meant that if you needed a new horseshoe ran over, all you had to do was say the word and he'd be there and back in less than thirty minutes! I mean honestly, you'd think he was gonna run the Grand National or something like that!"

"Doctor, did you examine all of the victims?"

"I most certainly did, Mr. Holmes. I gave them all a thorough post mortem examination. And I can confirm that each and every one of them died from the exact cause of death. Their throats were cut straight with what I think could be a jack knife, or at least some form of razor blade."

"And what about this guy here? What's his story?" Asked Inspector Jones.

"The local schoolmaster, Mr. Louie Jennings." Explained Dr. Martin. "He died early in the morning, I would say at around three o'clock, and died after his throat, like the others, was cut."

"Mr. Holmes, do you wish to examine the body?" Asked Constable Randall. "After all, that's what you normally do in the stories, isn't it?"

"Indeed I should, Constable. If that's alright with you, Inspector Jones?"

"Not at all Mr. Holmes. Just make sure you don't damage any evidence, whatever you do." Said Jones.

Holmes removed his glass from his pocket, and began to carefully begin his usual and careful method of examining the deceased schoolmaster's body. He firstly examined the large gash on the victim's neck, and leaned backwards and forwards on his knees in-order to view the fatal gash from as many different angles as he could manage. He then checked the temperature of the victim's cheek, and carefully looked inside the victim's mouth. He then examined the victim's fingernails, which were also bloodied.

"Hum! A most telling clue indeed..." He muttered to himself.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes?"

"Doctor, have you properly examined underneath this man's fingernails?"

"No, I have yet to have the chance to do so. Why is it that you ask, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes sprang up back onto his feet again.

"I have reason to believe that this man faced his killer, and made to attack him by scratching him." Explained Sherlock Holmes. "For I note that the wound is rather deep, so the victim was facing forwards. The schoolmaster was, as you say Doctor Martin, killed with a razor blade, which I place at around three inches long due to the splatter pattern around the wound.

"Furthermore, the killer cut from right to left, which suggests that he is left handed." He added, even gesturing with his hand towards my neck the way in which the cut pattern would have went. "The victim was also at least six foot in height, judging by the angle of the deadly gash. Please, do tell me, Constable, what items were found on the victims when they died? Was there, perchance, anything unusual?"

"Not at all, SIR!" Cried Randall with another salute. "I made a point of searching the victims' belongings myself, and there was nothing unusual on them, nor was anything removed."

"I even checked them myself. There was nothing strange." Added Stevenson.

"So in conclusion, inspector, constables, doctors, I should gauge that this killer is a man who could be at least six feet tall, left handed and perhaps bears a scratch mark on his body. Tell me, have any suspects yet been discovered?"

"Not at all sir. Not at all."

"You mean that you have yet to even properly investigate?!" Exclaimed Athelney Jones.

"Not at all. We're a small village, so if we began considering somebody a suspect, naturally everybody in the entire village would know by sundown! I imagine that messages get carried faster in this village than any form of the police, Scotland Yard or even the Baker Street division." Explained Stevenson.

"And it'd look really bad for us, if you know what I mean, to go around accusing people of being even remotely involved." Added Randall.

"Then naturally, somebody in the village should know something." Said Sherlock Holmes "Come now, here appears to be a local resident. Perhaps he should know something? Excuse me, sir! Over here!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note:** This was my first ever attempt at writing a character with a severe stutter. Hope I managed to do it right.

* * *

We approached the man whom Mr. Sherlock Holmes had called over, leaving Constable Randall and Dr. Martin behind to ensure the protection of the scene of the incident, until the body could be properly removed and any further investigation carried out.

"Who on earth's that you're calling now, Mr. Holmes? Oh, it's Bert!" Cried Constable Stevenson happily. "Bert! How are you?"

"F-Fine, th-thank you C, Con, Con... stable." stuttered the man in reply.

The man in-front of us was a young and fresh-faced sort of man, thought to be in his late twenties or his early thirties. He appeared rather nervous and mild-mannered in his ways, and looked to be incredibly nervous and showing many signs of rather severe paranoia as he rubbed the tips of his fingers together, and appeared to be constantly trying to look at his surroundings.

He had finely combed flaxen hair, and it was almost impossible to properly tell the colour of his eyes with the way that they were constantly moving around in their sockets. He wore a white shirt and a dark grey woollen jumper over the top and a red tie underneath, dark grey trousers and highly polished black shoes.

"Mr. Holmes, this is Albert Stevens" Said the local constable by means of introduction. "He's the village's local librarian."

"Sh-Sher, Sherlock Ho-Holmes, the de, det, de...tec...tive? P-Pleasure." stuttered the librarian in reply, shaking both Holmes's hand and mine in a weak and limp manner. "C-Ca-Call, call me B-Bert, pl...ease. I, I, I trust yo-you're p, pro, probably here a-about the mur, mur... murders?"

"I am in-fact, Mr. Stevens." Explained Holmes. "And I only want to ask you a few questions about the incident, to see if you could perhaps help us out with any of our enquiries, that is. Do tell me, dd you see or hear anything about last night's murder?"

"M-Me? No, n-no, M, Mr. Hol-Holmes. I d-d-didn't s-see a... a... a... anyth- anyt- DRAT! a... anything. A-Ap-Apolo...gies f-for m-my, my s-stutter, s-sirs I c-can't hel, help it a-at t-times." he replied with a wince.

"It's very much alright, Mr. Stevens." said Jones "I and Mr. Sherlock Holmes can still understand you all the same. Why, I have a nephew who has had a similar condition since birth."

"T-Thank y-you, s-sirs. I, I, I am an e-early r-riser, you s-see. 'E-early to b-b-bed, bed, and ea-early t-to-t-to ri-rise' and a-all t-t-that..." He tittered weakly. "B-But I, I, I, d-do k, kee, ke, keep my e-ea-ears c...lose to the g-grou-ground, y-you know..."

"Please tell me then, Mr. Stevens," enquired Sherlock Holmes "what exactly have you heard, then?"

"W-well, I'm o-only th-the li-li...brarian, a-and s-s-still new h-he-here r-really. I, I, I've o-only be, been here, here, o-only fo-for a f-few weeks. I, I, I h-ha-ha-have only been he-here for, for a f-f-few weeks, a-after the-the o-old li, li, libraria...n re-ret-retired, so-so I o-only k-know a fe-few det-details a-ab-a-about th-the l-local, local people. I-I do, do go t-to the, the p-pub i-in the e-evenings a-af-after work's done fo-for the d-day. S-so I do, do h-hear m-mu-m-m-mu-m-, OH, BOTHER! m-m-much l-local g-gossip th-there though.

"W-Well, I, I, I, hea...rd f-from s-s-some guy i-in th-the pub, y-you know, t-ta-t-talking t-to his f-fri-friend o-or some...body like that; he, he, s-s-said that he mi-might ha, have h-h-he-heard some...thing."

"What did he say that he heard then?"

"I-It wa-was t-the e-even-evening after the th-third murder..."

"You mean the murder of Mr. Giuseppe Bruno?" interrupted Constable Stevenson.

"T-That, that's the one." said Stevens with a nod "The-the m-man sa-said that he hear-heard a s-sound l-li-l-like m-m-m-man's s-s-screa-sc-screaming a-and sho-shou-shouting i-in th-the ea-early morning. H-He sa-sai-sa...id it was th-though the p-pe-per-pe-person d-do-doing it w-was ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma- DAMN IT! ...mad."

"Well, there's no known mad people in the area." said the local constable.

"Well there shouldn't be. After all, I think the nearest asylum to here is about sixteen miles away. Too far to walk, and there's been no reported escapes or incidents for the last few days when I last checked back at the Yard." added Athelney Jones.

"I see. If you were to see this man in a crowd of people, would you be able to pick him out?" said Sherlock Holmes.

"Or even if you could describe him for us?" I encouraged.

"S-So-Sorry g-g-gentlemen, b-but I w-wa-was much too t-tired to t-t-take n-notice." Bert Stevens added "A-After...all, I-I-I've h-had a ro-rough ti-time, time, t-trying to re-re-re...org-ah-niyze all of th-the boo-boo-books a...gain. I... do... thi-think how...eh...ver th-that he-he w-wa-was a f-f-f-f-farmer."

Constable Stevenson quickly took out his notebook and pencil and began to note down the details that Mr. Stevens had provided to us in quick, short-handed writing.

"H-H-He ha-had grey h-h-hair, a-and wore a g-g-g-green j-jacket and br-bro-br-brown, brown trou-sers."

"Farmer, grey hair, green jacket, brown trousers." repeated Stevenson.

"T-That's c-c-cor...rect."

"Thank you very much for this information, Mr. Stevens. You appear to be very tired, so I think you should take a rest from organising your library for the rest of the day." said Sherlock Holmes "We must now try to find the man who matches the description in the nearest public house, which is, constable?"

"The Red Lion, Mr. Holmes. Although I think the description matches that of Farmer John McDonald. He owns a farm quite close to the village actually, so perhaps we should check with him?"

"An excellent idea, constable. Please lead the way. Goodbye, Mr. Stevens. If we need to discuss the matter further then we shall look for you."

"T-T-T-T-Take c-c-care." Said Mr. Stevens, trudging off on his way once again.


	5. Chapter 5

Farmer McDonald's farm was just outside of the village, to the sides of a long and winding dirt road, surrounding predominantly by the forest and a number of tall and green hedgerows; As was the rest of the village. The woods themselves were shaded by tall trees, and prevented the warm afternoon sun from shining onto the forest floor.

We happened to encounter Farmer McDonald standing outside of his white cottage, and was throwing seed toward a small number of clucking and pecking hens that stood around him.

"Ah, mornin' constable!" he called, noticing our small party. "Are you here for your eggs? Well, if you are, then I'm afraid that I'm gonna have to disappoint. They'll hopefully have them laid by next Monday though, hopefully."

"No, sorry, John. It's official business into these murders of late."

The farmer was a nearing-elderly man, with grey and messy hair that looked to be beginning to bald from the visible sides. His face was worn and wrinkled, like a well-used rag. He wore a green flat-cap on his head, and a dark green jacket over his blue shirt. His black boots reached up to his knees, and were stained with brown and splattered mud stains.

"Ah. Well, that explains why you're running around with these two gentlemen, and that Scotland Yard feller who's been running around on and off these last few days."

"Yes, this is Inspector Jones. And this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his companion Dr. Watson, who are assisting Inspector Jones and I with our investigation."

"Oh, well it's a pleasure to meet you all. So what exactly are you here for?"

"We have a few questions about one incident, and we think that you may prove to be helpful to our enquiries." Explained Jones.

"Well then, ask away."

"We were speaking to a young gentleman earlier," explained Sherlock Holmes "one who said that he frequents the same public house as yourself. This gentleman, who will remain unnamed, mentioned that you said to another friend of yours that you heard something on the night of the murder of the Italian cart driver. Could you back up this gentleman's claim?"

"Oh yeah. I kept meaning to say about it to you constable, but I never really got the chance to do it. I'm busy with the farm, you see, and every time I happened to meet you, it completely slipped my mind!" said McDonald with a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. "But yeah, seriously, I did hear something a bit funny, constable."

"Do tell then," said Jones, taking out his official notebook and pencil to register the account "what did you hear?"

"Well, I was walking home from the pub on Saturday evening; the one that the Italian feller was killed, y'know? It was after the call for the last drinks of the evening was put out, and I thought that the wife would be having kittens with worry if I didn't get back soon, so I decided to quickly hurry home. It was close to midnight, I think.

"So anyways, there I was, walking home the normal route up the main street near the square, I'd borrowed a friend's lantern so I could see where I was going. And also, y'know, just in-case the worst happened.

"I was walking home when I heard what sounded like a high-pitched cackling, cheering and whooping sound."

"Cackling, cheering and a whooping sound?"

"Yes, Inspector. Like there was somebody nearby who was completely off their rocker."

"As I mentioned earlier, gentlemen, there's been no report of any breakouts from any asylums, local or anywhere else in the country. I even sent a request for them all to double check just in-case." Interrupted Athelney Jones, dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief.

"Yeah, well they must have left the gate open at some mad house. Either that or someone was stark raving mad with drunkenness." remarked Mr. McDonald "I just ignored it and quickly went home. The side alley where I heard it was where Giuseppe Bruno was found the following morning. Surely if there was someone escaped from a mad house, they'd have noticed at least by now!"

"Indeed." hummed Sherlock Holmes "Tell me, did you perhaps see or hear anything else suspicious? Anything could prove to be useful."

"Here then, let me think. Well there's nothing strange or suspicious that I can think of really. But there was -"

"Yes?"

"Well, there was the sound of footsteps."

"Footsteps?"

"Yea, footsteps. Like if someone was dancing around something."

"Dancing around the body perhaps. Were there any footprints at any of the previous crime scenes?"

"Well, constable?" enquired Jones "Was there?"

"Well... there was one." said Stevenson, after a moment of thought. He took out and flicked quickly through his official police notebook. "I only just got to make a description of it though. But still, I made one just in-case it should come in handy. I wasn't sure if it was the footprint of Constable Randall or mine from treading in it accidentally or not, but I thought it might be a good idea to note it down."

"Well, you are certainly proving to be a model investigator." said Holmes with a smirk in the corner of his mouth "Now let's see here..."

" _Partial bloody footprint_ [it read] _with a pointed square toe and rounded heel. Possibly the patent leather type? Has an arch in it around the middle._ "

"It's certainly not the most detailed description, I'll say in terms of lengths, widths, depths and other measurements, but nevertheless, still a very useful one. Constable, do you mind if I make a copy of your own description for my own notes? Excellent, thank you."

"Now then, constable, do you think that there is anyone else who could prove to be useful in the enquiry?" asked Athelney Jones, pocketing his handkerchief and his own official police notebook once again

"Well, it's probably not my place to say..." said Farmer McDonald, interrupting the constable before he could even manage to breathe the first syllable. "But, perhaps you should ask Nathaniel. And the blacksmith too, that's where I'd start if I was investigating."

"Nathaniel? Who is Nathaniel?" I asked.

"The father of Delia Hawthorne. You know, the first one who died." Said the farmer, blessing himself with his hand. "And the loveliest thing in the village, she was. Reckon there wouldn't be a boy in the world who wouldn't have loved her."

"And," added the constable "for her lover to die not long after."

"Her lover, constable?" I asked.

"Yes, doctor, her lover. She and Mr. Bruno, you see, were of the same age, and were both infatuated with each other." explained the constable "He had no family of his own and had feelings for her. She had feelings back. They would have made a wonderful married couple if you ask me."

"I see. 'Thus, before a kiss, they died'." Holmes quoted "And Mr. Bruno worked for the local blacksmith?"

"Yea, and lived with him as well. Work in exchange for food and shelter."

"Very good. Could you summon him to the village police station at the earliest possible convenience? And Watson, would you kindly go and seek out Mr. Hawthorne, the writer for me? I feel as though we should both properly examine the link between the two victims as soon as we can manage."

"You think that there is something the matter?" asked Jones

"Not at all, Inspector. I simply with to discern the facts behind the matter. I think that this relationship may hold more to the matter than meets the eye. But I shall state no further facts yet. Thank you for this information, Mr. McDonald. I hope we have not kept you behind in anyway?"

"Certainly not, Mr. Holmes!" cried the farmer with a smile "I'm more than happy to help with anything that will make me, my wife and the animals less paranoid over the whole thing. Now, I'm sure you're busy, so I won't keep you any longer. Bye now, take care!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note:** Ended up writing quite a lot for this chapter, so I decided to split it into different parts.

* * *

Upon our return to the village, our little investigation group decided to temporarily split up.

Holmes and Inspector Jones proceeded to the local constabulary to await the return of Constable Stevenson and I. Stevenson had been sent to summon the village's local blacksmith to the station, meanwhile I had been tasked by Holmes in-order to find Hawthorne, the writer, and to accommodate him to the station.

I asked a number of villagers as to where the writer himself lived. A number of them appeared to be initially rather non-compliant as it were, and somewhat sceptical of me. After all, why would they give a local resident's address out to someone from the city, who might not even know him personally in the first place? Perhaps they thought I had poor intentions with regards as to what I could do with the address.

However, after another villager, an old woman by the name of Mrs. Smith, I think, pointed out that I was probably involved in the investigation due to the fact that I was seen following after 'the Scotland Yard man and the constable alongside whatshisname Holmes', they probably came to realise that I was involved in the investigation into the serial murders that had struck the village, they seemed to be more than ready in-order to assist me.

The writer, Mr. Hawthorne, lived in a small house just off of the village square, which had a hanging basket beside either door, and a small planting trough filled with small flowers under each ground floor window, which made the house appear to be much brighter than what it actually was.

I was shown into the sitting room by the housekeeper, and told that the writer would be with me shortly.

The sitting room appeared to be much like the one that Sherlock Holmes and I would be used to in our own Baker Street suite. The usual disorganised chaos in decorating and furnishing would have made Holmes himself feel very much at home.

A number of notes and photographs had been pinned to the wall above a wooden desk, which was covered in both scrawled and handwritten papers and smudged typewritten papers. A well-worn typewriter, with a fresh half-completed page still inside of it.

A number of pages had been scrunched up and thrown into the coal scuttle, old ideas and drafts that were due to be thrown into the fire, I imagine. A large number of books also lined the bookshelves of the room, while a number of them had also found a home on-top of the mantelpiece. Numerous black-letter volumes on various different subjects, such as American history, geography and law, while a large majority of them also appeared to be novels. American ones, mainly, which cave me stark reminders of A Study in Scarlet, where much of the case itself originated in the American west.

A book lay open on the armchair in-front of the fireplace, while an oil lantern sat in preparation for any evening reading that should occur.

"Good evening, sir." yawned a voice "How can I help you?"

I turned around to face the man, who was Hawthorne himself.

His dark brown hair had been quickly combed, it seemed. He wore a dark brown waistcoat over a pale yellow shirt, with a red bow-tie hanging around his neck undone. His brown trousers matched the waistcoat, and he wore a pair of dark blue bedside slippers on his feet.

"Good evening sir, my name is Dr. Watson. I do apologise if I have interrupted your rest." I explained.

"Oh no, doctor. It's perfectly alright. The housekeeper was due to wake me around about now anyway. It makes for a change of visitors anyway, as I was getting sick of that policeman calling again and again for days on-end. So, what was it that you wanted?"

"It is in connection with the police, actually. My friend and companion, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is actually aiding the police in the investigation into the, er, recent events, if you'll catch my drift."

"Oh," he said rather glumly "It's about... that... is it?"

"Yes, it is about that, I'm afraid."

"When you said about it being in-connection with the police and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I thought as much."

"All that I ask is that you come with me to the police station to answer a small number of questions." I explained gently "Then you may return. If you did not wish to attend, then we would be more than understanding."

"Oh, no, no. It's alright. I shall accompany you back to the constabulary if that is what is needed, doctor. I shall come quietly."

"If you are sure." I advised.

"Ah! Welcome doctor." said Constable Randall, who was sat at the front desk of the local constabulary. "And good evenin' Mr. Hawthorne."

"Good evening, Constable." murmured Hawthorne with a nod in response.

The village constabulary appeared to be a small house, with a blue lantern outside being the only sign depicting it as an actual police station. It was the size of a small regional police station in London. A hat-stand stood beside the door with a pair of police helmets and umbrellas hanging from it.

Aside the front desk was a small corridor to two small holding cells, which appeared to be immaculate and as though they had rarely, if ever, used.

Another desk stood aside the key rack, a desk which had appeared to be commandeered for the interview which Sherlock Holmes himself and Inspector Jones and Constable Stevenson had quickly and haphazardly organised.

The room appeared darker than it should have been, and an orange glow filled the room from the oil lamp in the centre of the table.

Around the table was Sherlock Holmes himself on one side, and Athelney Jones on the other. A tall and staunch-looking man with a bald head, flaxen moustache, white shirt and brown leather apron, a man whom I could only assume to be the blacksmith. A space had been left, I assumed for the author, Mr. Hawthorne. The constable stood by the wall with a notebook and pencil at the ready, and a seat had been left, presumably, for me.

"Ah, there you are, doctor." remarked Holmes "And I notice that you have brought Mr. Hawthorne, the writer, back with you. Excellent work indeed. This is the village blacksmith, Mr. Huddlestone, who was also the legal guardian of the young Mr. Bruno"

"A pleasure to meet you, doctor. Hullo, Nathan. I'm sorry we've had to meet again under these circumstances." grunted the blacksmith.

"Good evening, Harry." responded the writer, as he took his seat at the table for the strange meeting that we had gathered.

"Seeing as that's everyone now, I think that we should now begin." said Athelney Jones, standing up from his seat and resting his hands on the table, the way that an MP would in parliament.

"You have both probably guessed why you are here." said the Scotland Yard detective "But if you have not, then allow me to properly explain."

He cleared his throat.

"For the lat while, I have been investigating the serial murder which have occurred in this village in a short period of time. And only today did I properly employ Mr. Sherlock Holmes into helping the investigation along into said serial murders.

"As he is conducting this interview with the co-operation of both the authorities in Scotland Yard and the local constabulary, I am therefore compelled by law to advise you that anything you do say may be taken down and used as evidence."

"That's alright with me, I've got nothing to hide." said Hawthorne.

"Me neither." said the blacksmith.

"Very good. Then I shall begin." said Sherlock Holmes, standing up as Jones sat down and began making notes alongside Constable Stevenson, who gave some reassuring nods towards the gentlemen.


	7. Chapter 7

"Mr. Hawthorne, you may begin by telling us a few details about yourself and your daughter's background prior to the event."

* * *

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I am a writer by trade. I was formerly involved with a religious movement, but I left after I became... enlightened, shall we say?

"I worked as a diplomat for the American embassy in London for a while; I'm partially American myself, as you may have guessed from my accent; but it was a politically appointed job, actually, and during that time, I came to meet my wife. However, after Gladstone left office, I was dismissed, so we had opportunity to marry and we had our daughter, Delia.

"Tragedy struck, however, after Delia was born, and my wife passed away from complications following the birth. So it has always, more or less, been the two of us.

"We moved to the countryside after that, and I took up my writing. I didn't make much, but it still keep us going, thankfully. Se was educated by the local schoolmaster, and I was able to fund her education and any food we needed from my writing.

"So then a few months ago, Giuseppe, sorry, Mr. Bruno, came to the village a year or so ago. And he worked hard to earn money by doing his job and other little odd jobs, including odd jobs for me too. I guess that's how my daughter came to meet him and came to fall for him.

"She loved him, Mr. Holmes, and he loved her all the same, that much was obvious. I even told her in private that if they wanted to marry, then I would have no objections whatsoever to the union.

"Then, the events that transpired only a few weeks ago occurred, Mr. Holmes. Sorry, Inspector, am I going too fast for you? Would you rather I speak slower?"

"Not at all, Mr. Hawthorne. Pray continue."

"Okay, well, it was a few weeks ago when it all happened. My daughter came home in a rather distressed sort of way. You know, the way that girls that age can be."

"I know the sort indeed, Mr. Hawthorne." interrupted Sherlock Holmes "Tell me, did your daughter explain the reason for the upset?"

"She didn't at all, Mr. Holmes! She went upstairs to her bedroom and refused to talk about it, even at dinner. Even the housekeeper couldn't manage to get a word out of her to see what on earth could be the matter.

"Anyway, we left it at that as I went to go and take my evening walk; at around six o'clock that evening, that is; when I passed by Giuseppe. He, too, looked rather annoyed in the same manner, and I had thought that the two of them had fallen out or something.

"So I asked him 'Giuseppe, is there anything the matter between you and Delia?'

"To which he replied, 'No, nothing is wrong with me or your bambina'.

"'Well, she came home in a terrible strop, and she was very upset.' I replied, wondering if he might have said or done something himself to upset her.

"'No, I assure you, she will be alright.' he reassured me through gritted teeth. 'It is simply that someone tried to, how you say, come between us. However, they will not so much as be given a sbirciare into our relationship.'

"'Okay then, if you're sure. Let me know if you want anything.' I called after him after he went on his way and I went mine.

"I then got home that evening, and my daughter had confined herself to her room for the evening and refused to come out or speak to me or the housekeeper. I tried all evening to get her to so much as speak to me, then gave up and went to bed at around eleven o'clock that night, as is my usual routine.

"I woke up the... next morning..." said Hawthorne, swallowing a lump in his throat "I had... finally given in, and... broke the door down myself. That's... when I... saw... her..." he managed to explain, before finally breaking down.

"There, there..." said Athelney Jones, patting Hawthorne gently on the back.

"It's alright. Just let it all out..." said Stevenson.

"I see." said Sherlock Holmes, with the usual languid expression upon his face "Constable Randall?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"Would you be so kind as to fetch Mr. Hawthorne a glass of water?"

"At once, Mr. Holmes."

"Very good. Mr. Huddlestone, when you are ready to begin, would you care to issue us your account?"


	8. Chapter 8

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Well, my story isn't really as big or as exciting as Mr. Hawthorne's is, to be frank, but I'll try my best.

"I am a widower, you see, Mr. Holmes, and I never got to have any children of my own. So I thought that I'd hire an assistant. A live-in one, to keep me company and to help me deal with all the work and the deliveries and such.

"So, I went to London for a few days and put out an advertisement in the newspapers and in the other publications for an assistant. I wasn't offering the best pay out of them all, but it was still pretty decent enough for a wage.

"On the first evening of having gotten it put out, I got a word back from only one. A young Giuseppe Bruno; you probably know where this one is going; and I had a bit of a talk with him.

"He said about how he was pretty quick and accurate with a hammer when it came to metalwork, and knew his way about a horse and cart, as his father owned a blacksmith's when he lived in Italy as a young boy. Though, tragically, his father died through illness, and his mother came to illness. His mother also died, on the journey to England, and he was alone and absolutely desperate for a job.

"I didn't want to hear another word, as he captured me with his story, and passed every question I had for him with flying colours, and we returned back to Barchester the following day."

"And how did he fare?"

"Superb, Inspector! Superb! He had already studied the English language as a child, so it didn't take long for him to fully catch on. And he could go around quick with the horse and cart. He earned more than his keep, and proved to be an excellent companion. His behaviour, too, was splendid. He attended church every Sunday, and was very friendly with all of the local people."

"And how did he come to meet the late young Ms. Hawthorne?"

"I was just getting to that part; actually. He attended Sunday school, along with a couple of the young Ms. Hawthorne. And the two were obviously in-love with one another.

"She taught him many English words, and he taught her plenty of Italian in return. It was clear to even this old geezer that they were both in love. I even told Giuseppe, myself, actually, that as his legal guardian, I would certainly not object at all if the two decided to marry."

"And what caused the young Mr. Bruno to become upset as well before the day of Dahlia's passing?"

"I'm not very sure at all, Mr. Holmes! He came home seething one day, seething, I tell you, and offered, in all of his anger, to make a couple of horseshoes for me.

"So, thinking that it would help to relieve his apparent anger, I gave him free roam of the workshop for the day, and I took the rest of the day off.

"He battered and banged like hell all afternoon, throwing coal into the furnace fire as though it was gonna go out of style tomorrow morning, and battered the horseshoes as though they owed him money.

"Now, I'd be alright with this, as I keep several tonnes of coal at any one time, and there's always a need for more horseshoes with the amount of carts that come through the village on a day, but the shouting made it more or less unbearable."

Holmes suddenly sat up. And, following his lead, so did the constable and Inspector Jones, who looked ready to take into one of his so-called 'fits of energy' as Holmes had dubbed them.

"Shouting?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, shouting."

"But what did he shout?"

"Well, I'm not quite sure. But whatever it was, it didn't sound nice."

"Yes, yes. What exactly did he shout though?" said Holmes with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"It was in Italian, I think. But it was things like 'socko bal-boozey' and 'lee-broh dee prez-teetoe eedeeohta', all at the top of his lungs, too."

"I see!" cried Holmes suddenly, making a quick note of what the Italian had apparently shouted. Inspector Jones, however, made no effort to record what the Italian had apparently shouted in his rage. "And how did he react to Delia's death?"

"He was devastated. As were we all."

"Oh yea, I remember that he wouldn't talk to anybody afterwards." said Constable Randall, looking around from the front desk of the small police station "I often seen him on my way to work, and he usually said a friendly 'Buongiorno' to me, but he rarely spoke at all afterwards."

"Constable, what were the circumstances surrounding the young Mr. Bruno's death?"

"Well," said Stevenson, producing his official records of the investigation "After the greengrocer died, Mr. Bruno was found not long afterwards in a small side street."

"The street where the bloody footprint was found, and where Farmer McDonald had heard the strange noises?"

"Exactly, Randall! Well guessed, indeed!"

"I see... hum!" cried Holmes "Well, Inspector Hones, I'm certain that I could tell you of who Ms. Hawthorne, the Grocer, Mr. Bruno, and the schoolmaster is."

"You can?!" exclaimed Jones, closing the official notebook once again.

"Certainly, and without any shadow of a doubt."

"Who, then?"

"All in good time, for the evidence should match my theories on the matter. It is now simply a matter of confronting the killer. And I imagine I know exactly where to find them at this time of the evening." Holmes looked at his pocket-watch and chuckled.

"Excellent. Gentlemen, we should proceed to The Red Lion, where I imagine our killer is enjoying his usual evening drink. Inspector, Constables, Doctor, it would be advisable if you should come and be ready, in case the situation should turn against us. Mr. Huddlestone, Mr. Hawthorne, you are most welcome to join us if you wish. Come now, gentlemen!"


	9. Chapter 9

Our party left the local police station behind, with Constable Stevenson now wearing a pair of clean, and seemingly never-used, handcuffs upon his belt. I could tell from the look on Holmes's face that the mystery had, indeed, been brought to a conclusion in his cold and analytical mind, and that an exciting denouement should await us all.

We entered into the Red Horse, and we were almost immediately immersed into the chattering and laughing of village life, which could easily be heard from further on up the road.

The villagers were all sat around tables within the pub's white plaster walls. All happily drinking, talking and being merry with one another. I recognised many of the villagers from my earlier stroll around the village in search of Mr. Hawthorne, as well as the earlier walk around the village that we had taken at the very beginning of our adventure.

I could see Dr. Martin, the village's curmudgeonly practitioner, sitting quietly at a table by himself in the corner, drinking his half-pint of beer.

Bert Stevens, the mild-mannered and stuttering librarian, sat at the bar by himself with a drink, and was reading a copy of "Crime and Punishment" quietly to himself as some form of rudimentary speech practise. One could even observe him making the shapes of the words with his mouth. "Si-beer-ee-ah" "Rahz-kohll-nee-kov".

He was sat near to Farmer John McDonald, who was sat drinking a tankard of beer as he talked and chatted merrily with another group of similarly dressed men, who appeared to be a number of his friends.

Without any form of regard toward common or colloquial manners, Holmes stepped forward into the bar area, and we reluctantly followed.

"Come, gentlemen," said Holmes "For I shall buy us a round! Consider it my treat."

"If you insist, Mr. Holmes, then how can we refuse?" asked Athelney Jones, whose eyes suddenly lit up, appearing to threaten another 'burst of energy'.

"I'll pay for mine, I insist." said Mr. Huddlestone, taking some change out of his apron pocket and attempting to prise Holmes's hand open in-order to give him the money, but Holmes quickly brushed him off.

"Well, I don't feel much like a drink." shrugged Mr. Hawthorne.

"Me and Constable Randall will have to pass on your kind offer too, Mr. Holmes. We're both still technically on-duty, you see."

"Oh, do lighten up, Constable!" pressured Jones.

"Alright then. Landlord, four pints of your finest beer, if you please. And you may keep the change."

"At once, sir." murmured the pub landlord, accepting the money that Holmes had given him without any form of hesitation.

We took our seats at the stools directly in-front of the bar, with Holmes darting to take the seat closest to Stevens before I could so much as consider it.

"Ah, M-M-Mister Ho-Ho-Hol-Hol...mes." stuttered Stevens with a friendly smile upon his face as he looked up from his book. "G-G-G-Go-Good E-Evening. H-How i-is the inve, inves...ti...gation?"

"Ah! Evening Mr. Stevens. Well, we have all but finished our enquiries. We now know the full truth behind the matter."

"R-R-Really? W-Wow! T-T-T-Th-They said y-you were g-g-good. I, I s-suppose the-they-they weren't k-k-ki-ki-kidding t-then... eh? Heh heh."

"Indeed." said Holmes, as plain-faced as ever.

"We-We-Well, well, I-I'm just d-d-d-doing some r-reading. C-C-Crime a-and P-Punishm-ment. I-I-I-It's rea-really ra...ther in-in-inter-in-in-int-in-in- DRAT! interesting. H-H-Have y-you -?"

"Read it myself?" asked Holmes "Yes, yes I have, actually."

"R-R-Really?"

"Yes. I should list it as one of the most important books for detectives to read, in my professional opinion, actually."

"Y-Yes?"

"Yes, I believe I also cited C. August Dupin and Le Coq would be good textbooks for detectives on what not to do in an old adventure of ours that you recorded, didn't you, doctor?"

"Yes, A Study in Scarlet was the one where you mentioned it."

"Ah yes, Watson and I's first ever outing."

"R-R-Really? W-Wo-Wow! T-Tha-That's g-g-g-great." stuttered Stevens, who had just about finished off his drink and was now checking the time on his pocket-watch.

"W-W-Well, I re-re-re-really must be g-go-going n-now." he yawned, marking his place in the library copy of the book and closing it. "I-I-I've got a lot more b-books to o-or-organise in, in the m-morning."

"Oh no, Mr. Stevens. Stay a while yet. You must stay." said Sherlock Holmes

"No, no, M-M-Mis...ter Holmes. I-I-I'm ti-tired. I re-rea-rea-really am. I m-m-m-must be u-up in the m-mo-m-morning e-early."

"No really, you must stay. For we have had our crime, we must now properly issue our punishment, Mr. Stevens."

The rest of the Red Horse suddenly began to quieten down, perhaps picking up on what Holmes himself had said.

"I b-b-b-b-beg your p-p-pardon?"

"Oh yes, for you are the true murderer, are you not?"

"Hang on... what?!" exclaimed Farmer McDonald, standing up and looking toward us. The rest of the pub seemed t notice, and began to look towards our group and Mr. Stevens, who had suddenly went whiter than he already was with the shock of such an accusation.

"Bert Stevens, the serial murderer? You've gotta be having a laugh, Mr. 'Great Detective', haven't ya?" slurred a voice from the back corner. "He couldn't slice bread, never mind somebody's throat!"

"Oh no, madam. I never joke about such serious matters." said Sherlock Holmes, shaking his head. He gave a wave to the three official policemen who were now stood behind him, as though ready to attack. Athelney Jones stepped forward and began to handcuff Mr. Stevens.

"Albert Stevens, I am arresting you in the name of her majesty the Queen for the murders of Miss Delia Hawthorne, Mr. Hugo Gregory, Mr. Giuseppe Bruno and Mr. Louie Jennings." read Athelney Jones as he fastened the metal bracelets onto Mr. Stevens's arms. "Anything you do say can and will be used against your defence in a court of law. If you do not mention anything when questioned, it may later harm your defence."

"OH, SHUT UP, YOU BUFFOON OF A FAT POLICEMAN!" barked Stevens suddenly, perhaps the clearest I had ever heard him speak for the entire duration of this adventure. He stamped down hard on Inspector Jones's foot, and looked ready to escape. The two village constables, however, stepped in-front of Holmes and Inspector Jones, armed with their batons suddenly. I laid my hand on my old service revolver as a precaution.

"Y-You can speak alright?" asked Farmer McDonald "Clearly, like?"

"Of course I can, you pathetic excuse of a farmer!" barked Stevens, with a look of fiery anger in both his face and his eyes. "They deserved it! ALL OF THEM! ALL OF THEM! AND I'LL KILL YOU PATHETIC LOT AS WELL IF I HAVE TO!" he growled.

The villagers gave varying startled cries, and a number of them suddenly dropped their drinks in the shock of the threat, as Stevens growled. Some of the villagers began to shuffle quickly, quietly and nervously toward the door, while a number of them cracked their knuckles as if ready for a fight.

Sherlock Holmes, however, laughed, and stepped in-front of the two constables.

"Now, now, Mr. Stevens. Now, now. There is no point in fighting against it. For you have been caught at long last. And I think at the perfect time, too, for I can tell by the bloodied knife in your jacket pocket that you intended to murder again tonight. Inspector, please check and confirm for our benefit, will you?"

"At once... Mr. Holmes." winced Athelney Jones, limping over toward his stool and removing a bloodied pen-knife from the jacket pocket. Confirming Holmes's suspicions.

"Damn you, Sherlock Holmes! DAMN YOU TO THE DEPTHS OF HELL ITSELF!" roared Stevens.

"Really now," chuckled Holmes "do you not think that I have not heard that one before? Come now, to the station, and explain your motives."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note:** The thoughts expressed by Mr Stevens are his own, and do not necessarily represent the thoughts of the author.

We returned to the constabulary, carefully escorting Stevens along with us.

As no appropriate interview room was available at the station, we had to have a rudimentary interview with him, by tying him to the chair with some rope from the late Mr. Gregory's shop.

"Now then, Mr. Stevens." said Athelney Jones, as we stood off to the side "Please tell us everything about what you have done. And I mean everything. And don't step a foot out of line again, or it will be the most fatal mistake that you will ever make."

"Humph. Well, there is no need in trying to conceal it. After all, everyone in that pitiful pub heard me, so naturally all of this town of gawking gossiping goose-brained fools know about it. And hence, I shall tell you that I am a wronged man. A scorned lover, would probably be the better descriptive term.

"I arrived in this town only a number of weeks ago, as I told you myself. A little experiment of mine, was that stutter and stammer. I-I-It's j-j-j-j-just a m-ma-ma-matter of lett-ting it play out na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-naturally." he read off in a mocking and condescending manner.

"I must confess that it was a rather good mock stutter." said Sherlock Holmes, with a conceding shrug. "But you let it vary too much in terms of severity."

"Yes, yes, whatever. I happened to meet Ms. Hawthorne outside of the train station, where she was speaking with Mr. Bruno. I had arranged for his cart to collect me at the front of the train station. I had sent enquires via telegram to the local greengrocer and postmaster, Mr. Gregory, who had obviously made the appropriate arrangements on my behalf for the collection of both myself and my luggage.

"And there they were. Mr. Bruno, that greasy-haired and post-pubescent idiot of an Italian immigrant. If his brows were any further together I would have suggested they marry. And that beautiful young belle, Delia. Both of them introduced themselves, of course. Her voice was as pleasant as the song of a lark, while he was about as understandable as your handwriting, Inspector."

"If we want your opinion on penmanship, we will ask for it." said Constable Randall, trying to make some form of attempt of acting intimidating.

"Quiet, I'm speaking!" growled the librarian, causing his chair to almost leap off of the floor with anger "Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, I rode with them in the cart to my new cottage. It was dank and drab, but it at least served purpose for living. I live a surprisingly quiet life, keeping only to books and to a number of newspaper and magazine subscriptions. As I stood re-organising that clumsily organised library; I mean honestly, you'd think they'd never heard of the Dewey decimal system; my mind was lost in the thoughts of that beautiful girl.

"After a while, I wound up the courage in-order to confess my love for her."

"And how did you do that?" then, said Sherlock Holmes, rolling his eyes.

"Hmph, well I can't see any reason why you of all people would be interested, Mr. Holmes, but alright. I shall humour you. After all, it is not like I can claw your face like I currently wish to do.

"I had asked a few villagers where she was, under the premise that she had left something behind in the library when she last visited, and that I wished to return it to her. Surely enough, I found her, and presented her with some flowers. Needless to say, she was in shock.

"Before I or she could say anything else, Mr. Bruno happened to be driving past. He wondered what on earth was going on, quite naturally, and stepped down from his cart to enquire. In a fit of tears, she explained to him what had happened. Naturally, the pair of them were upset, angered and annoyed, for she was evidently spoken for. He slapped me in the face, and threatened that if I should ever approach her again that I would be the sorest soul that had ever existed, and that not even God himself would be able to give me any form of mercy. I imagine the pair of them went home in a terrible mood."

"They did indeed." said Sherlock Holmes "In-fact, it was the testimony of Mr. Huddlestone who gave you away."

"Mm? Me?" grunted Huddlestone. He and Mr. Hawthorne were sat in the corner silently, to the point where you would have thought they were no longer in the room at all.

"Indeed. Recall that you testified as to what Mr. Bruno said. Although my Italian is rather unpolished and your pronunciation shaky at best, I was able to properly understand it. Libro di prestito idiota means 'Book lending idiot'. And sciocco balbuzie means 'stuttering fool'. You are the town's only librarian, who has the job of managing the town's library, so it is only natural that you authorise the lending of the books available. Furthermore, you are the only villager here that has, or at least pretended to have, a stutter."

"Aha!" exclaimed Stevenson "So that's how you worked it out."

"Continuing my story before Dr. Watson needs to treat you for a swollen ego, Mr. Holmes," snapped Stevens "After that, I was torn on the inside, and angered deeply. Mr. Hawthorne is a frequent visitor of the town library, as he's often researching a law or American Puritan history or something, so it didn't take too long for me to track down where she lived. I had brought my pocket knife with me, the one that you confiscated, and with the full malice of forethought went to go and kill her.

"I scaled the drainpipe and carefully jimmied the window open. Heh. She was obviously surprised and frightened when I drew the knife, and went to unlock the door. However, I was too fast for her." he chuckled, with a malicious grin on his face. He nearly struggled to get the rest out through laughter. "The blood was such a lovely colour. And it went everywhere! The wound was... beautiful! As though her beauty had been augmented by the very wound."

Mr. Hawthorne nearly knocked over his chair as he stood up and left the room, pursued by Constable Randall with a handkerchief.

"Sick bastard." grunted Jones.

"I couldn't help but chuckle and dance around her like a wild Indian before I left again. It was exquisite, the feeling of having killed her. But I kept it to myself so that I would be able to execute action again in a similar way. Oh, the way the village mourned. Big tears, dabbing each-others eyes and blowing runny noses. I felt the need to murder the grocer not long after, for he and I were at school together. The way he behaved... his ego was bigger than yours, Mr. Holmes."

"There will be plenty of time for defamation of my character later, Mr. Stevens." said Holmes "Please, simply continue your story until the end without interruption."

"Your pride has evidently been wounded, Mr. Holmes. The villagers were always so panicky. Why, a piece of crating fell off of a cart and onto some poor bitch's flowerpot, and half the village was calling for the cart driver to be tracked, found and forced to pay back every penny in cost. In-fact, chances are it was only worth a ha'penny.

"I was walking around one night when I happened to encounter Mr. Bruno. Oh, how beautiful it was to exact further revenge upon that foolish Italian. Praying to Beata Maria and Gesu Christo. I laughed as he writhed the life out of himself, and ensured that he suffered, and that every breath he took would be more painful than the last. I even trod on his neck, and ended up dancing around him happily. Oh, how astounding it was!"

"The murder of the school master was the same as the murder of the greengrocer. Simply because I could, Inspector. Because. I. Could."

He took into another fit of laughing. A high and wiry uncontrollable cackle of sheer lunacy. Afterwards, he could no longer be properly understood.

"I think as though we've heard enough." said Athelney Jones "Constable, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, help me move him into a cell."

"At once, Inspector."


	11. Epilogue

The following morning, the news had broken across the village as to what had occurred, and the true story behind the murders of the young Miss Hawthorne, the young Mr. Bruno, the schoolmaster and the greengrocer. A black maria cab had arrived from London in-order to properly escort the raving mad Mr. Stevens, who had appeared so mild-mannered and was yet so evil, to proper holding facilities.

"Terribly sorry for having to get you involved in this, Mr. Holmes." said Constable Stevenson.

"Not at all, Inspector. I'm simply glad that another case could be brought to such a swift conclusion."

"Well, I've got no idea how we'll be able to get him on trial." said Athelney Jones, watching as the Black Maria travelled up the main street of the village, with the still cackling and raving Mr. Stevens inside. "He's barely fit to even stop himself from pissing himself. He's gone entirely mad in the head."

"He is the worst sort of criminal. The criminal who is a criminal for the sake of being a criminal." said Sherlock Holmes with a stretch. It was still early i the morning, and everyone involved in the matter had only had a few hours' sleep. "However, do you not think that there was a better way of resolving it?"

"The man who killed my daughter and her love for the sake of simply because he could? I do not agree with you, Mr. Holmes." said Hawthorne, who still appeared to be wounded from what Mr. Stevens had previously said.

"Perhaps not, Mr. Hawthorne. Perhaps our children and their children and maybe even their children will be able to look upon this matter and be able to provide some form of rational explanation behind this queer incident; an explanation which I nor Watson nor any Scotland Yard Inspector can currently provide an explanation for. It is a grey area, and an area that will remain grey for sometime. However, I imagine that in time, its true colours will be revealed."

* * *

And that was how the matter of the 'mild-mannered' murderer, Bert Stevens, was brought to a conclusion.


End file.
